


Independent 07 - Jasmine Tears

by Aadler



Series: Remixes [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aadler/pseuds/Aadler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Better to have loved and lost …” Right. But what if you don’t even have that much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Jasmine Tears**  
(the Pang of Memory Remix)  
 **by[Aadler](mailto:aadler27@hotmail.com?subject=Jasmine%20Tears)  
Copyright March 2008**

* * *

[](http://awards.rogue-poet.com/index.html)  
September 2008

[](http://www.athenewolfe.com/fangfetish)  
May 2009

[](http://faith.moments-lost.org/index.php)  
January 2011

[](http://faith.moments-lost.org/index.php)  
January 2011

This story is a remix (done for [Remix Redux](http://community.livejournal.com/remixredux08))  
of “[Do and Talk and Do](http://www.panthermoon.com/buffy/archive/0/dotalkdo.html)”, by Morphea.

* * *

Disclaimer: Characters from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and _Angel: the Series_ are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

* * *

She spotted him coming up the street, and knew while he was still little more than a moving silhouette that she had found her mark. She’d been here almost an hour, scoping the situation and watching for the right opportunity. Once, long ago, it would have nearly killed her to hold back, to stand still for so long, to let action be forestalled by the necessity of circumstances. Not here, not now. Faith had learned patience during her self-imposed downtime — that was the first thing you learned, or you didn’t survive — but that wasn’t all of it. Wasn’t even the half.

She had also learned not to kid herself, and the truth here was that, much as she needed to do this, part of her feared what she would find when she reached her goal.

The street was a tunnel of dusk. Nobody had wasted lights on this section of town, at least not for this time of night, so that the individual headed her way could be seen only vaguely backlit by reflected light bleeding down from the sky. Later, or earlier, there might be men working graveyard shifts. Or maybe not; demon nightclubs tended to be set up either in the middle of the urban crush, trusting to learned habits of not noticing anything that might be too disturbing, or in out-of-the-way spots that just didn’t attract much notice in the first place. Given the locale, the establishment she had been watching would seem to be the latter.

Faith shook out a cigarette and lit it with a stainless-steel Zippo. (Hizzonner would’ve clucked disapprovingly at the sight of her smoking, but she’d got used to the nicotine buzz during two years in stir, and it wasn’t like the things were gonna kill her any faster than her current lifestyle.) The approaching target would spot the flame, but that still worked for her. Let him know someone was there, let him weigh her up as he drew near. Didn’t want to spook him, not before he’d given her the service she needed.

She could see him better now as he drew closer, and every moment further confirmed her first judgment. She couldn’t have said how she knew, she just knew. She _always_ knew. Some Slayers had it stronger than others (supposedly the most sensitive could feel a vampire’s presence even before seeing him), but Faith hadn’t run across any yet who were better than her at recognizing one when he popped up. B came close, but she always claimed — maybe even believed — that her own ‘vamp-dar’ was based on a keen eye for dated fashion. Maybe that was true, maybe not. _Not,_ in Faith’s case, but even so she almost always knew a bloodsucker when she saw one.

The specimen moving in her direction? Good sense in clothes, or maybe just lucky, he wore an outfit (jeans and a high school letter jacket) that could have come from any decade clear back to the Sixties. The Johnny Galecki hair style wasn’t a giveaway, either, plenty of living guys went for the emo look. He didn’t walk with the exaggerated strut you saw in lots of newbie vamps, along with some that had been around longer without gaining any brains. He could easily have been exactly what he appeared to be: a seventeen-year-old kid, the type who’d got his letter on the track team because he wasn’t beefy enough for football, out on the town looking for something different and exciting.

He wasn’t, though.

Faith was nowhere near done with the cigarette, but she snapped it away and stepped from the alleyway and out into the street. “Hey, sport,” she called. “Help a girl out here?”

She’d given him enough advance notice that he didn’t check at the sight of her; he took a few more steps, then stopped just far enough away to have time (probably) to react to a sudden charge. His eyes measured her, calm and unhurried, and his voice was just as steady. “Help you with what?”

Older than he looked, count on it. The assurance was real and unforced, out of sync with the sensitive adolescent features. Plus, she was starting to get the sense of a good mind behind the unthreatening facade. “Getting in,” she said, and hooked a thumb back toward the door she’d been watching while she monitored the street. “I don’t know the password, or even if there is one, and there’s a guy I need to see. If I could go on in with you, well, I’d be really grateful.”

That prompted the rise of an eyebrow. “How grateful, exactly?”

Genuine amusement there, and still that measuring gaze. “Let’s put it this way,” Faith told him, with the knowing grin she’d mastered by age twelve. “Anything you can take, you’re welcome to have.”

(It was all show, habit. Inside she was numbness and turmoil, playing sex games the last thing that interested her. She could do it, though, she could do it in her sleep, and in the here-and-now it was the right tool for the job.)

He studied her for a few more seconds, and then his smile was quick and bright. “Hard to beat an offer like that,” he said. “Sure, come on.”

Faith didn’t miss that, as they started toward the club, he kept a good tactical position relative to her … which meant he was almost certainly aware that she was doing the same. “Got a name?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he said. “Why?”

“Gotta call you something,” she returned with a shrug. “Doesn’t have to be your real name, just gimme a tag.”

“Calvin,” he told her without seeming to stop and think about it. “You?”

She flashed him another grin. “Hope.”

“Right. Well, Hope, this’ll go smoother if we look comfortable together.”

Games again. Didn’t have to be real, long as it was convincing. Faith gave him a convincing laugh and molded herself to him, sliding one hand between the buttons of his shirt to rest on his bare chest. At the first movement he had tensed, for resistance or withdrawal, but then allowed the unwarned familiarity. “This comfy enough?” she asked him.

‘Calvin’ looked to her, their faces inches apart; she was as tall as he was, and only slightly more slender. “Should do the job,” he said.

There was no sign above the door of the club, nothing to identify it, you either knew about the place or you didn’t. The demon bouncer wasn’t much over six feet tall, and didn’t look especially tough; unless he had some hidden buddies, he wouldn’t have given Faith much trouble if she had decided to just wade through him. She wasn’t the same person she’d once been, though. Hard lessons had taught her not only how to wait, but when and why to do so. She had needed to get inside with as little fuss as possible, being as she wasn’t as likely to get the favor she wanted if she tore up the place on the way in. Slayer vibes might have triggered an aggressive response from the doorman/ bouncer if she had tried to go in unescorted. With one thing and another, what Giles would have called a delicate situation.

She didn’t do delicate. Sneaky, though? sneaky she could handle.

“Don’t laugh,” Calvin warned her as they neared the door, then called, “Hey, Dork. How’s it hanging?”

No explosion of wrath, or even a sullen glare; the bouncer just made a ponderous nod, and in a wheezy tenor he replied, “Leftmost high and tight. Centermost ripe for delivery. You volunteering?”

Calvin shook his head amiably. “I don’t have much use for my innards, but I’d still rather keep ’em, thanks. And I suspect your grublets wouldn’t care for the taste, anyhow.” To Faith he said, “Sure you’re up for this, baby? It’s not too late to back out, and I know where we can score some O.”

“Since when did I ever back out of anything?” Faith challenged. “C’mon, you said this place was the real deal. I wanna see.”

Calvin gave the bouncer a ‘what can a guy do?’ shrug, and the demon shifted to let them pass. Once inside the door, Faith stepped away from her escort, regarding him doubtfully. “You weren’t just screwing around? The guy’s name is actually Dork?”

“Only the first syllable,” Calvin said. “Most of what comes after is subsonic. He’s okay with the abbreviation, as long as nobody laughs.” He smiled, looked around the interior, back at Faith. “So, does it live up to your expectations?”

Much like the Bronze back in Sunnydale, this place had been set up in a converted warehouse. That was the extent of the resemblance. The lighting was lower, the smells were sharper, there was no band, and (big surprise) the clientele were almost completely nonhuman. Faith had seen demon hangouts here and there across the country. Most followed either the pattern at Willy’s — mainly vampires, with a smattering of other types in ones or twos — or a reversal with vampires in the minority but still comprising the largest single group. This joint had very few vamps, at least in the first sweeping inspection Faith gave it, and the other demons seemed to have sorted themselves out by species or clan group.

“Didn’t have any expectations,” she said by way of reply. “Like I told you, I just needed to get inside. Now that I’m in —” The next words would have been _Scram if you wanta keep on un-breathing,_ but she stopped. At a raised platform near the far wall, a heavily-muscled crane (beak, feathers, scaled legs and tearing claws) was trading blows with a wide, squat conglomeration of ropy tendons and gelatinous tissue-clusters. The crane was landing three strikes for every one it took, but there was no clear sense of which combatant was taking the more damage. The throng surrounding the platform seethed with a rumble and bark of cheers, protests, or announcement of changing odds, and Faith saw money, tokens, and the occasional yowling kitten passed from one bettor to another. “Gladiators?” she asked Calvin. “I thought that kind of thing was mostly for human crowds.”

“Nope.” Calvin shook his head. “Just part of the ambiance. Two to five fights a night, volunteers looking to prove something or settle a score or gain status, some of ’em just bored and itching for action.” He grinned at her. “You could step up yourself. I’d get good odds on you, unless somebody decided there must be more to you than shows on the surface.”

She had already been aware of the subtle deference he had been showing her, just as he must have picked up on the absence of fear from her. So, here it was. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He regarded her with a lifted eyebrow and a tilted smile. “Nothing in particular. Just, all of a sudden there’s stories of … extraordinary young women, popping up all over the place. Real spoilsports, most of them, but some have their own ideas about the best way to live their new lives.” He lounged back against a carpeted pillar. “If you were one of those special ladies, then, which kind would you be? The kind that wants to infiltrate one of the bad places, scope it out and write up a target assessment? Or the kind hoping to make connections so she can set herself up as, I don’t know, an independent enforcer?”

“Oh, I’m independent, all right,” Faith told him levelly. “Nobody’s ever accused me of bein’ a team player. But there’s only one connection I’m lookin’ to find.” She shifted to put herself closer to him, watching him register the potential threat and wonder how ready she might be to carry it out. “You might know about him. Green guy, horns, red eyes. Dresses like the Joker, talks like Liberace. Used to have a place of his own, classier than this from what I hear. I mean, sure, karaoke, but still classy. Called himself Lorne, or maybe the Host, that was a while ago. Sound familiar?”

“Lorne, yes.” Calvin nodded, still unruffled. “He’s here most nights, another of the featured attractions. Very picky about which clients he’ll accept, but honestly, I think a little exclusivity just makes him more popular.” Another of those easy smiles. “I would imagine he’ll be willing to grant _you_ a session. Would you like an introduction?”

Faith shook her head. “Just take me to where he is, okay? He’ll see me or he won’t, I don’t really picture you swayin’ his decision either way.”

“Oh, I’m happy to help however I can.” Calvin uncoiled himself from the pillar. “But if you want to preserve your self-reliance, far be it from me to interfere. See that little alcove back there?” He pointed. “Go there, draw the curtain, knock — politely — on the door. From that point, it’s up to him.” Chuckle. “Although, with the impression you make, I expect he’ll want to learn more.”

“Stay,” Faith ordered, and turned to head in the direction indicated. She really wasn’t worried about him trying an attack, a place like this was where hellscum came when they _weren’t_ hunting, besides which he had already demonstrated an uncommon degree of caution, perceptiveness, and good judgment. It was a shame to let him go — this was exactly the kind of rare smart one you didn’t want to let get a start on building his own little empire — but that wasn’t what she had come for. She was here now, and the answers were close (if any were to be found), and she just couldn’t wait any longer.

She entered the alcove, drew the curtain, and knocked, brisk but not loud.

There were noises from the other side of the door: a sigh, something being set down — on a table, probably — and less distinct sounds that might have been footsteps on carpet. It occurred to her that this wasn’t a good position for her; the curtain kept her from seeing out, but anyone outside would know pretty much where she was, easiest thing in the world to thrust through the light cloth with a sword or arm-spike or whatever …

Bottom line, she just didn’t care. She waited, and the speakeasy panel in the door was drawn back, and her eyes met a pair with scarlet irises. “Hey, green guy,” she said. “Been awhile.”

She couldn’t see much of him through the panel, but those eyes didn’t blink or look away, nor did he seem especially surprised. “I’m not in the hero biz anymore,” he said to her. “And I don’t have any news about Angel. I did my part and then I left, that was the deal. Anything that came after, you know as much as I do.”

More, maybe; she’d seen some reports, heard some rumors, and it wasn’t much but Lorne had the look of someone who didn’t _want_ to know, once he’d made the choice to opt out. “It’s not about that,” she told him. “This is personal, strictly me. I need to find out something, about myself, and right now you’re the best person for me to ask.”

“Nice to be popular,” he murmured. Then the panel slid shut, and a moment later the door opened. “Come on inside, then. This may not take very long — because I’m serious, sugar dumpling, I have NO further interest in playing a supporting role in Major Destiny — but you might as well be comfortable while we sort it out.”


	2. Chapter 2

He looked older than she remembered. Not that they’d spent a lot of time together, first there had been the necessity of tracking down Angelus and then Willow had hauled her back to Sunnydale as soon as they’d managed to pull Faith out of the Orpheus dream. Still, she’d made careful note of him on first sight — any demon you didn’t kill right away, you gave it a once-over in case you had to kill it later — and she was willing to trust her memory on this.

There were no new lines in that improbable lime-avocado face, no gray streaks in hair the color of butterscotch. (Food theme going here, next she’d be calling those eyes “maraschino”.) No, it was all body language. The Lorne she remembered had always had something upbeat about him, even when things were grim he _stood_ jaunty. Now he moved as if feeling gravity drag at him, and his face sagged from some internal weariness. She took in these things at a glance as he showed her to a chair in the snug little sitting-room (that much hadn’t changed, he’d made this space his own in the midst of industrial drear), and they were facing each other, waiting to see who spoke first.

It was Faith who broke the silence. Not from nerves or impatience, but because there was something that needed to be said. “I would have come,” she told Lorne … and, at the sudden immobility of his expression, she went on. “For the showdown against those Black Thorn scrotes. I’d’a been there. I was pretty busy that first year or so, didn’t hear about any of the LA stuff till it was all over, but I swear I’d’ve come if I’d known. I owed Angel that much.”

Lorne closed his eyes, seeming to sink into himself just that little bit more, then opened them again. “Maybe that’s why he didn’t call you,” he said to her. “Maybe what he wanted from you was for you to have the life you’d earned. That scene at the end … he let me go, and I didn’t argue. Dying gloriously is still dying.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Faith said. “I’d’a been there.”

Another long silence, and this time Faith let it go on; having come this far, she suddenly couldn’t decide how to begin. “Here we are, then, honey lamb,” Lorne observed at last. “I’m keeping a low profile these days, so I don’t see you happening across me by accident, and if you went to this much trouble to find me, it’s not just casual curiosity. So, you have some questions, about yourself you said. It must be some edge-of-your-seat kind of important to you.”

“Important, yeah.” Faith’s laugh was harsh, choppy. “You could say important.”

Lorne sat back in his chair, crossing silk-slippered feet in front of himself. “Mm-hmm?” he prompted.

“You read people,” Faith said. “That’s what Willow told me, in the spaces between givin’ me the lowdown on Sunnydale’s latest impending apocalypse. I mean, that’s your specialty, right? You can look into somebody and tell her things about herself that _she_ doesn’t even know.”

“It’s my specialty, yes,” Lorne agreed. “Except for my smashing sense of style and the beautiful melodies that glide forth from these golden pipes, it’s the main thing I have to offer the world.” He tilted his head to study her. “Not that the news I deliver is always what my listeners want to hear.”

“Yeah, well, right now any answer’s better than none at all.” She closed her eyes, feeling her mouth twist in the bitter sneer of old, and forced her facial muscles to relax. “I just have to know, okay? One way or another, I’ve gotta know.”

“I get that.” He sighed. “Believe you me, Sweet Mistress of Leather, I don’t need any special empathy mojo to pick up that much. If you want an answer from me, though, it might help if I knew the question.”

Faith nodded, vexed but recognizing the need. Question, right. She’d been trying to work that out, without luck, since the first decision to go seeking Lorne. She knew what she wanted to know, but how to say it … She wasn’t big on verbal, her best communicating was done with fists or edged weapons. “Am I crazy?” she blurted at last.

Lorne sat regarding her without speaking for perhaps twenty seconds before he said, “Meaning no insult by this, my little Tabasco muffin, but you might want to be a teeny bit more specific.”

She made a violent gesture of frustration. “It just doesn’t make _sense,”_ she said. “I got two things in my head that don’t agree, and I know they can’t both be true, but I can’t tell which one is real and I can’t see how either one could be wrong. They don’t _work_ together, no way they ever could, and if I’m crazy that’d at least be an explanation.” She looked back to her half-unwilling host. “So, am I?”

“Well, you don’t talk crazy.” Lorne was watching her with a hooded gaze that revealed precisely nothing. “With my little inside peek to past, present and future, I deal with all types, including some that don’t exactly have every _hors d’oeuvre_ in their brain arranged according to Martha Stewart. You know you have a problem and you know it’s inside your own head, and that _can_ be crazy but it’s not what I usually see.” He pondered for a moment, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “Just how deep do you want me to go?”

“Whatever it takes.” Faith shook her head. “I don’t care. I just have to know.”

Lorne nodded as if he had expected the response, which might very well be the case. “Don’t be too sure. Most people’s lives are pretty routine; even the ones who live active, it’s basically an _ordinary_ kind of active. The ones like you, though — and Angel, and Wes, and Cordy — they’ve got so many threads of destiny running through them, it can be hard to follow a single line.” His eyes held Faith’s. “To find what you want, I might have to sift through a tangle of other stuff: big, dramatic, _oh my stars and garters!_ other stuff. You may need to think twice about starting me on that. I know I’m already having reservations myself.”

All her instincts were warning her to listen — what was the point of calling on a seer if you were going to ignore his advice? — but Faith shook her head again. “I can’t,” she said, throat so tight the words had to fight their way out. “This is killing me. Only time I ever felt worse, I was _trying_ to die. Forget destiny, ’cause unless I settle this I won’t have one.”

“All right, then,” Lorne said with a sigh. “I did my best. So tell me, wild child, do you have a favorite song?”

She couldn’t stop her face from going blank, or offer an answer more intelligent than, “Huh?”

“That’s how it works with me,” Lorne explained. “Some things are right on the surface — and what a fierce stew I’m picking up from you, sugar lump! — but to really tune in, I have to hear you sing.” He smiled, the first she’d seen since her entrance. “It’s like music and the soul truly are the same thing … which wouldn’t explain how I can read vampires and truer-breed demons, but I still like to believe it. Any song will work, but in a case like yours I’m thinking I’ll get a clearer, quicker line from something that has meaning for you. So, any faves?”

Singing. Wonderful. Exhibitionism of one form or another was neither new nor unwelcome to her, but Faith would have rather taken on Lagos in a bare-knuckle rematch than sing. She wasn’t about to back down, though. Not just from pride, she really was at the end of her rope here.

Favorites? Most of what she listened to was neo-punk or heavy metal, with no real lyrics she could remember, okay for dancing or a hard workout but no ‘meaning’ at all. For a moment she was blank … and then the memory came to her, clear and perfect, and she cleared her throat and began, _“I decided long ago / never to walk in anyone’s shadow —”_

“Whoa!” Lorne broke in, holding up both hands. “Stop! Enough!” Faith faltered, confused, and he settled back into his chair, mopping his brow with a glossy handkerchief. “Whew. I thought I was ready, but …” He pursed his lips, frowning as he assessed something only he could see. At last he looked back to Faith. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you.”

“What?” Faith felt herself coming up out of the chair, and deliberately suppressed the aggressive motion. “You can’t tell me you didn’t get anything, ‘nothing’ just doesn’t hit that hard.”

“I got something, all right.” Lorne folded the handkerchief and returned it to the breast pocket of his dressing gown. “It just wasn’t what you wanted. The answer you’re looking for, it’s there, I could feel it, but there’s no way to reach it right now. Something else is blocking it, something big and ugly. Until that works itself out, the curtain won’t be coming up on your show. Sorry, my earthy warrior maiden, but today’s performance has been put on indefinite hold.”

“That’s it?” She was standing now, poised on the balls of her feet, and she clenched her fists until the tendons creaked. “There has to be a way. Try again, different song, strip-tease, _something_. I can’t quit now!”

“It’s not a matter of choice.” He had changed, his demeanor subtly altered with the shift of his mood. No longer the semblance of a horned green human, he was something other now, alien, possessed of an ancient and implacable resignation. “What I told you is how it is. You can’t dig out the answer, you can only break it trying. Or break me, it comes to the same thing.”

Maybe she would have made the attempt, but his very fatalism forestalled her. He knew, she could tell, how close she was to launching herself at him and doing her best to tear out the knowledge she sought; knew it, knew he couldn’t stop her, and in the end it still wouldn’t change anything.

“So what do I do now?” she heard herself ask, in a voice that didn’t belong to her.

“It isn’t about doing. It’s about being ready. Ready to adjust, to respond, to move in whatever direction you need to.” His eyes caught hers, caught and held. “You can’t watch the meter on this one. At the right time, it’ll be there for you.”

*               *               *

She found herself out in the main club again without any explicit memory of moving. The noise and odors of the unhuman crowd were a fresh assault, but it was as if a wall of numbness insulated her from the harsh reality. No: the pain inside her simply overwhelmed any other stimulus. This had been the only avenue that had offered any promise, and now she was lost, with no thought of what to do next.

Even so, ingrained reflex gradually brought the environment around her into greater focus. Inner turmoil or not, drop a Slayer into a crowd of demons and she _was_ gonna notice! She automatically picked out potential avenues of attack, movement, strong points and choke points and which species or groups would pose the greatest threat if it came down to a free-for-all. She’d never been big on names, but she recognized the type that were clustered around the foosball table, others of a different type crowded into a booth and alternating argument with long pulls from tankards of bubbling liquid the consistency of gravy. Others nursing solitary drinks at the bar while they glared at all around them, a four-armed insectile form flicking darts at a board with both right-side arms. Some game with lumps of veined crystal and glass balls perched on narrow stems, and a call of challenge from the raised platform where the odd-matched pair had been fighting earlier —

She was halfway there before the intention fully formed, and kept going even as she recognized this as a thoroughly bad idea. Outnumbered fifty to one, sure, _perfect_ time to call attention to herself! Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter. She shoved the last few spectators aside and vaulted up into the contest area. This, _this,_ she knew how to do.

Voices fell as the onlookers got their first sight of her, then rose again in an excited babble. She ignored them. Across from her, the newest challenger was slightly taller than her and half again as wide, and looked more like a humanoid dinosaur than anything else. Brown pebbled skin, three-fingered hands tipped by hard stubby nails, a short spiked tail and a long horn jutting over a foot from his forehead. The mouth was beaked like a turtle’s, and he watched her from slitted eyes.

There were no instructions, announcements, warnings. The two of them just went at each other.

He was quicker than his size and build would have indicated, but nowhere near her speed. She hammered punches into his ribs and sternum, searching for a sensitive or vulnerable spot, dodged a swing from one massive arm and exploded a kick into his crotch. No result — no visible genitalia, for that matter — and she slammed in three more punches, two to the throat and a looping roundhouse to his more-or-less jawline. Skin tore on her knuckles, she didn’t care, she was laughing, she evaded another swing and a further turn of his body whipped the spiked tail into her legs at knee-level.

Starbursts of pain, the force of the blow had swept her legs from under her and she was falling. Land rolling, back upright with a pinwheel rotation of her legs (slow, too slow, he’d done damage there), stab at his eyes with her fingers, double-clap to where ear canals might be. He ignored the blows, closing with her, this fucker didn’t _have_ any weak spots, and the thick arms closed around her as she chopped at his neck with the stiffened blades of her hands.

Not good, but could’ve been worse, in seconds she knew he wasn’t enough stronger to crush her, but that turtle’s mouth snapped at her and the forehead horn thrust at her face, she twisted in his arms and caught a fleeting moment of leverage and lofted him into the air with a powerhouse sweep of leg and hip. He outmassed her by so much, the rotation of his body yanked _her_ from her feet, they spun through the air together but she made sure he hit the floor first, she driving her knees into ribs and belly as she came down on top. Still not enough, he heaved and squirmed beneath her, again trying to pierce her with the forehead horn. She threw herself back and clear, and from her side she kicked him in the head three times with all her strength; then, bracing one foot against the side of his skull, she grabbed the horn with both hands and wrenched backward, screaming triumph as it broke free at the base.

She was up again before her disoriented opponent could recover, and she darted around the flailing body, clubbing him in the face with the thick end of the broken horn and driving kicks into the exposed sides, and he was feeling it now! She stamped on one knee and felt it snap, repeated the procedure on the other side, then stood astraddle her prostrate foe and smashed the horn into his face again and again, forehand and backhand, back and forth. Blood (or something) was pouring from the beaked mouth, he was making a rattling wail of distress as he rolled in blind agony. She let the horn slide through her hand till she was holding it point-down like a dagger, and raised it high, preparing to plunge it down through the creature’s chest with both hands —

The silence stopped her. She paused, weapon still up, not looking but letting her senses register the watching crowd. There were no more shouts of excitement, protest, or dismay. There was no movement. There was nothing except her and the hundred-some eyes fixed on her.

Maybe they couldn’t believe the skinny human female had won. Maybe it was a breach of etiquette to fight to the death here. Hell, maybe she was supposed to let _them_ decide, thumbs-up or thumbs-down.

She didn’t know, she only knew that something hung in the air. And, as she stood in that moment of indecision, the ghosts of other voices came to her.

 _Oh, yeah, she’s great at killing, Faith is. You want something killed, Faith is totally your girl._

 _…_

 _Shame there isn’t anything else to her._

She let go of the broken horn, and as it clattered to the surface of the contest area she slammed one last brutal kick into her hapless opponent, then turned and stepped off the platform.

If she had looked around, if she had shown an instant’s hesitation or uncertainty, they might have torn her apart. As it was, a clear path somehow opened out in front of her, and no one challenged her as she stalked across the open expanse of the club floor, and to the door under the flickering EXIT light, and out.

*               *               *

As the adrenaline surge faded, so did the last trace of combat exhilaration. She was back in the darkness, only it was worse now because before there had been hope. That Lorne could explain the insanity whirling inside her, that the twin impossibilities could be reconciled or resolved. That it could be settled, one way or another.

She was passing out of the warehouse district where the demon hangout had been set up, and in the last few blocks had transitioned into something more commercial, shuttered shop-fronts and buzzing neon signs in the barred windows. The poled lamps were closer together now, and ahead she saw the beginning of a row of parking meters.

Heading uptown, moving toward something cleaner and brighter and less dismal. Just not where it really counted.

Her throat ached with the helplessness inside her. Her knee throbbed, blood seeping through the torn denim; the tail spikes had done some damage there. Her breath was coming in a harsh rhythm far too close to sobs, and she seized control of herself with merciless force of will. Never mind that traffic right now was something like two or three cars a minute, never mind that she was a stranger here: nobody, _nobody_ was going to see her and think she was crying. She didn’t cry. Ever.

Memory came to her unbidden, and she stopped, closing her eyes, arms hanging at her sides as grief and anguish welled up inside her. She couldn’t, she couldn’t do this, it was _too much —_

Another car coming. She shook herself back to the present, striding forward with grim determination. Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip. She had to find her balance, the mental steadiness that let her roll with things as they came. Like Lorne had said: _Ready to adjust, to respond, to move in whatever direction you need to._

And, as the car overtaking her accelerated and swerved suddenly in her direction, she moved.

It should have been no big deal, easy and automatic. She had tried to push off the injured leg, however, and the ravaged knee locked for an instant. Desperately she threw her upper body forward, and it was almost enough, the hurtling automobile just caught the edge of her hip, and spun her in an off-tangent tumble as it plunged past her to plow through the first of the parking meters, snapping off the post even with the sidewalk.

She hit the pavement on back and shoulder, hard, no control, slamming the breath from her lungs. Wasn’t going to stop her, she was tougher than anything that could be done to her! She levered up on one elbow, saw the car’s door pushed open, and as the driver emerged she recognized the vampire who had identified himself as Calvin. “I was right,” he said conversationally, and as she tried to rise, he kicked the supporting arm from beneath her and followed that with a kick to her face. “I knew you had to be a Slayer. One of the newer ones, anybody with experience would show more sense, but you really are good.” Another kick, this one with serious force behind it, to her short ribs. “Too bad I can’t see us as a team, because we’d be spectacular together. Sooner or later, though —” A fourth kick, and only a desperate backward jerk allowed her to take it in the collarbone instead of the throat. “— we’d come to a showdown over who was boss. Neither one of us could ever be second banana, it’s just not in our nature. And if that day was going to come anyhow —” A flurry of kicks, she rolled and gasped and blocked what she could with her arms, but he was wearing her down relentlessly. “— best it be now, when I can set the conditions.” He slacked his attack for a moment to stand smiling down at her. “The guys who go on about what a rush Slayer’s blood is, I always figured they had no idea what they were talking about. Now I get to test it for myself.”

She’d had those seconds to snatch back some wind and equilibrium. He was mimicking the tactics she’d used when she had Dino-Boy on the ground, and it was working almost as well for him. Keeping her down, reducing her bit by bit until she was so battered that he could risk a direct drive at her throat. She could stretch it out, make him work for it, but sooner or later she’d run out of time …

… and again Lorne’s words came back to her. _You can’t watch the meter on this one. At the right time, it’ll be there for you._

She rode the next kick, letting it carry her backward, and reached without looking around. Her fingers closed on the pole of the broken parking meter, she brought it around in a devastating arc, every last ounce of her remaining strength, and Calvin screamed as his pelvis shattered under the impact.

She made it to her knees, and swung the makeshift bludgeon again, crushing his chest. Another blow, she was on her feet now but staggering, and that one only broke an arm. She steadied herself, drawing on reserves that weren’t there, she’d pound his head clear through the fucking _pavement_ with the next swing —!

“Here, cupcake,” a voice beside her, “I think this is what you need just now.” Lorne, he was holding a stake out to her, she dropped the parking meter and grabbed the other weapon, struck downward with the sureness of a motion imprinted directly into her muscle fibers, and fell through the explosion of dust and into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

“Starting to rain out there,” Lorne observed, and set a cup of tea in front of Faith. “What is it with you champions? In a climate that gets maybe twenty days of precipitation a year, there’s always rain at just the right dramatic moment.”

It was an uncomfortable subject — Faith could remember exactly such a scene of rainswept drama — so rather than answer, she pulled the knitted afghan tighter around herself and reached for the tea. “This your idea of comfort food?” she asked. “Don’t get me wrong, hot and wet is good, but everything’s better with a shot of Yukon Jack.”

Lorne shook his head. “Sorry, sweet knees, my larder is very much below standard these days. Comes from striking out on my own without raiding the corporate coffers for a bankroll to get me started. But, it’s good to see that you’re recovering from your little descent into mayhem.”

Faith had already decided he must have brought her back to where he was living these days, though she’d been out during the actual trip. This place had something of the same style as his sitting-room back at the club — baroque, flamboyant, and at the same time somehow comfortable and reassuring — but an entirely different feel. She took a sip of the tea: burned her tongue, just a bit, but the honey he’d stirred in felt good as it slid down her throat. “That was what you saw, wasn’t it?” she asked him.

“Your own personal death-match, out on the mean streets?” He smiled at her. “Trust me on this, buttercup, impending doom does tend to get in the way of anything else I might be trying to see. You caught the attention of one very nasty customer out there.”

“Story of my life.” Faith blew on the surface of the tea, took another swallow. “I came out okay, thanks to your cryptic little hints … and next time, could you maybe _tell_ me you’re givin’ me a warning?” She set down the cup. “Anyhow, I’m here, I got through. Does that mean the boards are clear now? that you can give me another lookover?”

Lorne settled back into his own chair. “Not so quick, peach blossom. I’ve been doing this kind of thing for awhile now. Past experience, and a whiff of what I couldn’t quite see before, tell me you need to talk about this for a bit before I go kicking around in your karma.”

“Talk?” Faith shook her head. “Why?”

“It’s the shape of things,” Lorne told her. “Just like I could see, before, that your fight with Stalker Boy came ahead of what you were here for, I can tell now that there are issues we need to cover first, so that you can get the reading you want … no, so that it will give you the meaning you’re trying to find.”

And, again, it came down to _Don’t argue with the seer._ Faith lowered her eyes, attempted to gather her thoughts. To speak of these things, now, was a horrible vulnerability, and ultimately unavoidable. She had always known that she couldn’t get the necessary answers by hiding; now it was time to put up or shut up. “How well did you know Cordelia?” she asked Lorne.

Shadows appeared behind his eyes. “Not as well as I wish. She was an original, equal parts silk and pepper. Not everybody loved her, but _everyone_ responded to her.” He sighed. “There just wasn’t time. I got pulled into Angel’s crew a bit at a time, and they were always running around for this or that, seemed like there was never any real chance to just sit around and dish and get acquainted.” He looked to Faith again. “I heard her sing, but it’s the way I told you: people like her, there was so much destiny crammed in there, I never could see much past the big stuff up front.”

“Do you know …” Faith hesitated. “Do you know if she used to have a horse? A palomino?”

A tilted eyebrow from Lorne. “Hmm. She never said. Maybe, I just don’t know. Why?”

“Because I remember,” Faith said. “I remember her telling me about him. I remember laughing at her when she told me she’d named him Keanu.”

Lorne nodded. “Mm-hmm. So?”

“It’s like I said before, it doesn’t make sense.” She picked up the teacup again, staring at the liquid surface. “I remember … things. Lots of things. And the things I remember, don’t fit with each other.” She looked up at him. “I remember Lilah Morgan picking me up in that nightclub, and talking me into getting into the limousine when I’d just been planning to rough her up and rob her.” She drew a hard breath. “Only, I also remember Cordelia interrupting us _before_ I got in the limo, and me leaving with her instead of Lilah.”

“Well, now,” Lorne said. “You and Cordy chumming it up? I never heard about that.”

“I don’t see how it ever coulda happened,” Faith returned. “I remember us spending the whole night together, and the next day, too, ’cept just as clear is the memory of dropping her with an elbow-smash to the face and kidnapping Wes from her place, and _it was the same day._ She was scared of me, trying to reason with me, talk me down … and this is the same gal that bitched at me for callin’ her Cor, only she let me get away with it ’cause this was something that was just for us.”

Lorne nodded. “Deeper and more curious.”

She had broken through that initial wall of resistance, and now she couldn’t stop. “Know why I went with her insteada Lilah? It’s ’cause we were close already, clear back to our time in Sunnydale.” She set the cup down again, slopping tea over the edge. “That’s where she told me about her horse, how much it hurt to lose him and everything else to the IRS. That’s where I started callin’ her Cor. That’s where we were together practically every day, talkin’ about everything, _sharing_ everything —”

There was so much more she could have said, so much more she remembered. The shape of Cordelia’s nipples, the kind of panties she wore, the taste of her tongue, the pattern of the sheets on that canopy bed. Whispers and laughter and moans, the sensation of the other girl’s hands on her breasts, the shivery tracery of lips and fingers moving across her belly and down … Instead she looked to Lorne and said, “And that’s where I was workin’ with the Mayor every single day to kill the whole SHS graduating class. _Including_ Cordelia.”

Lorne sat, gaze lowered as he considered what he had heard. “I remember the story about the IRS,” he said at last. “Even four years later, our little Cordy was still not pleased with Uncle Sammy about that.”

“Exactly,” Faith said. _“Exactly._ The whole thing is batshit crazy. I loved her at the same time I was tryin’ to kill her? I went back to the office with Lilah at the same time I was leavin’ with Cordelia to spend the night at her place? It don’t track, it don’t match, what I remember with her can’t be true. But if it’s none of it true, how do I know things I couldn’t know any other way?”

Lorne nodded slowly. “Sounds like it means a lot to you.”

“Part of me would rather die than let go of it,” she told him flatly. “But I won’t hang on if it’s all a lie.”

“And don’t I know the feeling.” Lorne straightened his lapels, settled himself more suitably in his chair. “All right, then, honey bunch, I’d say it’s time for your solo.”

Faith closed her eyes, reached within herself for control, and began to sing. _“Everybody’s searching for a hero. / People need someone to look up to. / I never found anyone who fulfilled my need …”_

There was silence when she was done. She welcomed it, using the opportunity to pull back into herself, restore balance. One way or another, it was done. She’d put herself out there, raw, no defenses. Whatever came now, she could deal.

When he still hadn’t spoken after several more minutes, however, she shifted in her chair and ventured, “That bad, huh?”

Lorne flicked his hand in a negative. “Not bad, no. Puzzling. Believe it or not, that tapped into some issues _I’ve_ been having.” He looked up. “These conflicting memories of yours, that’s pretty recent, isn’t it? When did it start?”

“Month or so back.” She shrugged. “I’d just finished an assignment … a hit, if you wanna call a spade a shovel. She really did have it comin’, but the only way to get close enough for the job … well, let’s say we got closer than I was expecting. An’ it didn’t end well.” She could still see those eyes, as the girl registered the damage from the axe-blade sunk into her back: shock, and betrayal, and the recognition that she was dying. “Like I said, she had it coming, but at the last I didn’t want to do it. And I didn’t, exactly, at least not on purpose. But it hit hard.” A shrug and a sigh. “Wasn’t long after that. I started gettin’ the stuff about me ’n’ Cordelia. Impossible stuff, like I said, but real as anything I ever lived.”

Lorne chuckled. “One of life’s little ironies. I had a problem exactly the reverse of yours, and now it appears they’re connected.” At Faith’s nonplussed expression, he explained, “You have memories that don’t fit, I’m missing memories that should be there. I’ve known about it for nearly two years now, I just don’t know what caused it.”

Faith frowned. “Blank spots in your memory? You’re thinkin’ somebody pulled crap outta your head and stuck it in mine?”

“No, not like that.” Lorne tapped his fingertips together, gaze elsewhere as he looked inward. “In my case, it’s like someone airbrushed out things they didn’t want me to see, then laid edited swatches over the missing spots to cover the gaps. Only, some time later something pulled away all the patches, and I can see the gaps but not what used to be there, and I’ve got no idea what’s gone missing.”

“Okay,” Faith said. “And that’s connected to me how?”

“It starts in the same place, or close to it, in both our memories.” Lorne waggled a finger at her. “You can’t tell, but looking in from the outside I can track the links. Your extra memories were grafted in the last time you were at the Hyperion. My blank spots start well before that, but the biggest clusters appear about the same time.”

So it was true. The memories of Cordelia, of the two of them together, were bogus. She had known that was probably the case, but prior knowledge was no shield against the stabbing pain of loss. Face hard to mask the roiling anguish within, Faith asked, “Any idea who did it? ’cause I’d really like a chance to show my appreciation. With a cattle prod, maybe. And a coupla broken bottles. And a nail gun.”

“I can offer theories,” Lorne said. “But sorry, duckling, I suspect the likely perpetrators are out of our reach, unless you’re planning any safaris to the Great Beyond.”

Faith shrugged. “Ya never know. All right, go ahead: how’d this happen?”

“Right after you left with the redoubtable Miss Rosenberg,” Lorne said, “a very remarkable person arrived in Los Angeles. A woman named Jasmine. Heard of her?”

“Coupla news reports, maybe, things were pretty busy once I hit Sunnyburg.” She frowned. “Some kinda New Age find-your-bliss type, wasn’t she?”

“More than that,” Lorne corrected. “Oh so very much more. She was, for want of a better label, evil. And, particular to our point, she was somehow born out of Cordelia.” He held up his hand, palm-out. “Don’t ask me how, because that’s one of the fuzzy spots in my noggin. The best I can tell you is that sometime over the summer before, our Cordy got infected with some kind of demon essence. It grew very slowly, very subtly. We had no idea till the very end. I’m not sure how much of it  _she_ really understood. After the fact, though, we could see that Cordy — or the person we called by that name — had been evil herself for those last several weeks.”

“Oh,” Faith said. Cordelia, evil … what was she supposed to say to that?

“She’s the one who tricked us into extracting Angel’s soul,” Lorne went on, “and it was her who stole it so Angelus could hang around for play-time. Then Angelus double-crossed her and killed her favorite minion — you met him, you were there when it happened, big cloven-hoofed galoot covered with slag — which meant Angelus was all she had left to work with. Only you trapped Angelus, and your witchy pal from Sunnydale showed up to help us get Angel’s soul back —”

“Not pals,” Faith interrupted. “Not me ’n’ Willow. We’re okay now, we sorted some things out, but it’s nothin’ to joke about. Especially not with her.”

Lorne nodded. “Duly noted. Anyhow, while the Orpheus had you in Angel’s dream-state, slugging it out with Angelus, and Willow was playing tug-of-war with Angel’s soul … I think, when our possessed Cordelia saw she was about to lose, she planted those memories in you while the Orpheus had your mind open.”

“Huh?” Faith said. “Why?”

“So she could use you,” Lorne answered. “Once the demon came out, it was hard to resist her … impossible, unless you were really lucky. While she was still hiding in Cordy, though, she was big on using people. She manipulated us all, in one way or another.” He looked to Faith. “She’d lost her minion. She’d lost Angelus. We knew something was going on — ‘the Beast has a boss’ is how we put it — but we didn’t know yet just what we were facing. So if you had come out of the Orpheus with shiny, happy memories of all the wonderful frolics you’d shared with your old snuggle-buddy Cordelia, and there she was, all glad to see you and jump right back into old times? You’d have been her next patsy.”

It made Faith’s skin crawl to think of being used, especially of being manipulated by her feelings for a false lover. “So why didn’t she?” she demanded. “I was there, I was open, and it wouldn’t have been the first time I got played for a sucker.”

“Maybe the trance broke before she’d put in enough,” Lorne said. “Maybe she got scared that she’d tip her hand to Willow; I don’t think anyone expected _that_ little thing to be as talented as it turned out she was.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s clear she didn’t finish, that the first layer of memories was buried and left, and came out when they were tripped by a key event, but I couldn’t tell you why. I’m just, no offense intended, glad we didn’t have to deal with you on top of everything else.”

Faith thought about what she had heard. “Jasmine, huh?”

“Jasmine,” Lorne confirmed.

“And you say she’s dead?”

“Very dead,” he agreed. “Most emphatically dead, even though we’re still dealing with the wounds she left.”

“Cordelia …” Faith shook her head. “I never heard how she died. Didn’t care, till all the fake history started bobbing up.” She looked to the green demon. “This bitch kill her?”

“I … don’t know.” Lorne sighed. “She was in a coma for close to a year, she came back for a day — and _saved_ the day, just like the Cordy we all knew! — and then she was gone.” He sighed again. “I think it was a side-effect, sort of. Collateral damage. Not that it’s any comfort.”

They sat in gathering silence, the tea going cold on the table. Every part of her body hurt, but that was the least of the pain she felt. At last she looked abruptly to Lorne and asked, “Can you take it out?”

“What do you mean?” He frowned at her. “Because if it’s what I think —”

“All this cheap memory crap,” she said. “Can you take it out, or steer me to anybody who can?”

“No dice, sugar boots.” Lorne studied her with some wariness. “Not my skill-set at all. And the only guy I know who _did_ specialize in it, rumor has it that his head exploded.” He paused. “Just like Jasmine’s, now that I think about it. Coincidence, probably, but a nicely symmetrical one.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Faith stood suddenly. “I’ll find somebody. Hell, I’ll go to Willow if I have to.”

“Why?” Lorne asked. “Why is it so important?”

“Because it’s not _real.”_ Her fists opened and closed, again and again. “It’s all a fuckin’ lie.”

“And you know that now,” Lorne insisted, gentle but uncompromising. “When you came out looking for me, you already knew the whole thing was probably false. Now you have your answer. Why not just stick it in a little box, like some movie that you once saw but has nothing to do with you?”

“I can’t,” Faith said. “I can’t.”

He wouldn’t relent. “Why not?”

“It’s not true,” she said. “It’s not mine. I was never there, I didn’t do any of that, I …” She stopped, let out a shuddering breath, and whispered, “I don’t deserve to remember her that way.”

“And there’s the nub.” He had been watching her in her agitation, poised to move if he had to, but now he let himself settle back in the overstuffed chair. “Little message for you on the QT, lamb chop: maybe it’s not about deserving.” Again he held up a hand to forestall her. “Maybe it’s not even about you. Maybe all this has been for her.”

Faith shook her head, shaken and uncomprehending. “I don’t get it.”

“You remember her,” Lorne said. “You remember being with her, seeing just how special she was. That’s not something to throw away. To remember her like that, remember the way you loved her …” Once again he looked suddenly old. “There aren’t enough of us left who do.”

*               *               *

He had told her where to look for the stone, but she had no prior experience at locating a single burial plot in a cemetery this size, especially not in daylight. It took time, but she was in no hurry. The previous night’s rain still lay on the grass, and even though she knew this place was miles inland, it seemed that the breeze carried a hint of the sea. This was where Wolfram & Hart had kept a whole slew of reservations for their favored VIPs, and they might have been a bunch of evil scumbags but they’d had damn fine taste.

The stone, when she found it, was smaller and much simpler than the ornate statuary surrounding it; apparently, though they’d used Evil, Incorporated’s clout to snag a prime spot, Angel and his people had drawn the line at pulling company funds for the memorial marker itself. Good choice there, Cordelia didn’t need to be represented by such fancy crap. From the simplicity of the design and inscription, Faith suspected Lorne himself had made the selection.

That was good. Cor would’ve liked that. ’Course, she would have loved the swanky ones, too, she’d always had an eye for whatever was most expensive.

 _Nice crib,_ Faith said soundlessly to the vanished woman. _Not really my kinda digs, but it suits you. Sorry I haven’t been by before; places to go, people to kill, you know how that is._

 _… Well, okay, not people. I don’t do that any more. Except for that last one, and she was an accident, honest._

 _God, if you could’ve seen that tub of hers, you’d have squealed like a puppy._

It really was a good spot. Tasteful, shady, relaxing. Even a little murmuring brook in the background. Nice.

 _Remember prom? Xander’s face when we showed up together? Jeez, the way we laughed! He was with that Anya chick by then, but he still looked like he’d been smacked with a cinder-block. And Buffy, she got in a little jaw-drop herself when she saw us dancing, before she went back to makin’ goopy-eyes at Angel._

A bird began singing in the background. No idea what kind, what did she know from birds? But it fit. Like the stone and the trees and the brook and that soft wind from the ocean, it went to making a proper place to rest after a long, good fight.

 _… I used to love listening to you sing. I never told you how terrible you were, but I’d give just about anything to hear it again._

 _I miss you. I miss you so much. And I’ll never stop, I swear I won’t._

Tears sliding down her face, the dark Slayer knelt at the grave of the lover she had never known, and talked to her, and wept, and sang.

   
end


End file.
